[ What is she to do? How fixated he is on her refusal. How resentful.

And why not? Isn't his right as her husband to seek her out for that - for fucking? For her duty as a wife, that she refused?

How can she be anything other than grateful to him, that he didn't insist? That the worst of this is a late-night, wine-deep bemoaning of what right she denied him? He has every right to be angry, living here so far from the life he knows, with a withholding wife. What comfort does he have but his wine and his anger?

Still, it feels too much. All of these sentiments, crowding too close, and this room full of memories of another man much less respectful (and how good Treavor is, how good he is not to demand, not to force. To keep his silence save when he's deep in his drink.) And sorry, yes, she's so sorry that this was done to him.

And to her.

How it happened, she doesn't know, but she finds both of her hands grasping his, supplicating. Imploring. ]

Please.

[ There is so much in that word, unspoken still. Her gratefulness. Her remorse. Pleading, that he can understand. Striving, to reach him in his haze, oh please, let him see she means only kindness. Nothing like harm. ]

I know this is wretched. I see it. And you have been good, I've seen that, too. You've been patient.

I swear to you, I am trying to - make this bearable for us both. I want only that. Not to shame you. Not to worsen this, or add to your misery.